


miss lister likes trouble dot gif

by Spitshine



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: 1x08, Anne Lister: History's Greatest Fuckboy, Clothed Sex, Deleted Scene, Desperation, Dom/sub, Excessive Wetness, F/F, Kneeling, Knife Kink, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scent Kink, Service Kink, after a fashion, author doesn't speak posh, author is a basic bitch, author thinks about clothes too much, collection, gonna go ahead and add this to the, not virgin kink by any stretch but sophie doesnt know what shes doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23290210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: Color appeared in Anne's face then, bright spots high on her cheeks as her breathing went ragged and she slumped ever-so-slightly in the wooden chair. Sophie kept watching her, the motion of her chest under her shift, the bunch of fabric where it tucked into her drawers, every part of her frozen and tight but for her ribs, heaving with breath, and her mouth, where her tongue kept tracing her bottom lip, over and over.
Relationships: Sophie Ferrall/Anne Lister (1791-1840)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	miss lister likes trouble dot gif

**Author's Note:**

> good morning and welcome to the hell of no touching where even in our pornography no human skin can ever make contact with another human skin
> 
> bad bdsm etiquette by 2020 standards but probably stellar etiquette by 1830s standards. so you know. lifes short write trash
> 
> many thanks to my incomparable beta evilkneazle. we stan a hero. any remaining mistakes they have no doubt warned me against and i've chosen to ignore their better judgement.

“You do like trouble, don't you, Miss Lister?” Sophie whispered into the jamb as soon as Anne opened the door, bending a knee and dropping a hip to look up at the shorter woman through dark lashes.

“Not enough to invite it over for dinner,” she replied brusquely—but she took a step back and left the door ajar, and that was invitation enough.

Stepping in, she immediately realized—well. She hadn't expected... although _why_ not, was a question, given how she'd held her nightgowns up to the light one after another, donned the flimsiest cotton lawn and covered it loosely in her lace wrapper, not bothering with the ribbon ties at the neck but just letting it drape shut across her body...

“-mm?”

“What was that, Miss Lister?”

“I said, but we've already had dinner, so why are you knocking on my door at this hour?”

Sophie looked up, letting herself really take in the sight of Anne in the evening, Anne unraveling from the day. She too had her dressing gown on, a men's silk dressing gown, unbuttoned and laying open all down Anne's front. She must have been just undressing, hair loose over one shoulder, stays still tight over her linen chemise and tucked into—drawers, drawers with a little row of buttons down the front.

“You don't use a maid?” she asked distantly.

Abruptly, Anne sat down at the small table. “No.” She combed her fingers through the mass of hair at the back of her head and brought it over one shoulder to braid. “I don't. Not any more than one must, at least.” Sophie felt her mouth dry as she took one hesitant step forward, then another, her eyes fixed on Anne's fingers flying through her hair, strong, capable, _deft_... the warmth of excitement and confidence she'd felt bubbling beneath her ribs as she'd gotten dressed in her room suddenly coalesced into something hot and dense, squirming deep in her gut, leaving the rest of her feeling empty and vulnerable. She flicked her eyes up only to find Anne staring at her, tried to break the gaze and found she couldn't. “Why _are_ you here, Miss Ferrall?”

“Sophie,” she whispered. “Please.”

The voice came ever so slightly sharper. “Why are you here, Sophie?”

Another half-step forward. “I've heard—rumors.”

Anne did look away, then, stared out of the window with a broken-off laugh. “I've no doubt you have. What of them?”

She took three steps forward very nearly without thinking at all, silent as a cat in her house slippers, and dropped to her knees before Miss Lister's chair, wanting only to have those inescapable eyes fixed on her again; she felt the flutter of her wrapper come to rest against her thighs as she swallowed and stared at her knees and gathered the courage to speak. “I'd hoped they were true, miss.”

She felt Anne's little start of surprise and when the woman spoke again, there was a note of... hope? amusement? in her voice. “Have you now?” She looked up to meet Anne's eyes and saw the ghost of a smile around her mouth, the very tip of her tongue peeking out to wet her lips. “And what hopeful rumors have you been hearing, hmm?”

Brave suddenly—it must have been the flash of tongue, or the swallowed laughter in her voice—she tilted just slightly forward, hands landing on knees as her face made contact with Anne's body, no more than a layer of tightly-woven cotton between them, her cheek rubbing against the outside of Anne's knee just where it began to be thigh. The air all gusted out of her body, she couldn't help it, a deep moaning noise—

—and Anne's body was gone, Sophie's arms tightening instinctively to keep her face from crashing through the cool whirl of air in front of her and into the suddenly-empty chair; she'd barely sorted out what had happened when Anne's voice filtered past the rush of blood in her ears. “-s, well, it seems I've sent the maid away a touch too soon. You won't mind filling in a moment, will you?”

Sophie twisted around to look. Anne stood just past the desk, a generous pace away, her voice gone stern again, her body taut. “Sorry?”

“My stays, my stays. Eugenie always ties them in just the wrong place for me to reach myself.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” Sophie stood, a little unsteadily, and stepped closer as Anne turned, giving her her back. Her back which continued to be covered by her dressing gown, the tie of the stays making the slightest bump under the bottle-green-on-black brocade.

She brought her hands up to rest tentatively at the top of Anne's back, smoothed them over her shoulders, unsure how to proceed, and then, feeling foolish, took the dressing gown by the high collar and peeled it back, the shapes of Miss Lister's muscles clear through the light fabric of her chemise.

She'd only meant to uncover her back and get at the laces of the stays, not to remove the coat entirely, but the fabric was heavy and slick and drooped right out of her hands to puddle on the small bit of floor between them, landing warm and liquid against the bare skin on the tops of her feet, the front of her ankles. She looked down to see where the fabric pooled against the back of Miss Lister's ankles, curving around to catch her feet, too, in its dark crevasses, before jerking her eyes back up to the knot just beneath her shoulder blades.*

It was quick work to pick the laces apart enough to wedge a fingertip in and pull the tight knot loose; as she did the two halves of the stays came apart like a shell, shedding a thin slice of light onto the line of Anne's spine beneath the wrinkled linen. Anne hissed in a long, low breath, and Sophie watched in fascination as her ribs expanded and the slivered wrinkles opened up, welcoming shadows into each of their depths.

Another breath out and then in and she remembered what she was supposed to be doing, pulled the laces out with trembling, bloodless fingers. As she reached the bottom set of eyelets, the stays fell off, hanging on Anne's elbows for a moment before slipping off her arms and onto the floor. Sophie's breath caught in her throat as the shape of Anne's back sprang to life in the shadow of the lamp before her. She heard, very clearly, the sound of the freed busk clattering onto the hard floor and bouncing against the wooden table leg, the soft _whoomp_ of the canvas and cord landing on top of it.

Anne pulled her feet out of the puddle of fabric, stepped around Sophie with enough room that not even their clothing brushed, and folded decisively into the chair.

“I admit that fewer of my clothes end up on the floor when my normal girl does it, but not altogether a bad job.” Her voice was crisp and something close to approving; Sophie looked up as her mouth dropped open in embarassment.

“Oh, of course, I apologize—I am not used-”

“No, of course not. You do use a maid, hm?” As she spoke, Miss Lister placed a small writing-desk on the table and pulled a sheet of paper from it, folding it with swift, efficient motions.

“I-” Sophie started and stopped again, not sure what she'd been about to say. She knelt, cheeks hot, to bundle up the stays and dressing gown.

“How long has it been since you've undressed yourself?” Sophie bit her lip and looked down at her hands, carefully making sure of what they were doing. “Has anyone but your maid ever done it?”

Her head snapped up, face red with more than bashfulness now. “No! Of course not, you know I am unma-”

Anne cut her off with a hushing sound. “I meant no offence. Only—if you had explored any rumors about other, ah, similar women.”

“There are no similar women to you, Miss Lister, not that I have met.” She folded the last sleeve into the pile of fabric in her hands, tucked the busk into her elbow, and made to get up.

“No, stay.”

“Pardon?”

“On the floor, it suits you. Here, hand that up.” Helplessly, Sophie gave over the pile of fabric, watched as Miss Lister crossed the floor in long, sure strides, rolling the busk inside the stays and securing them within her trunk, hanging the dressing gown carefully over two pegs on the wall above, across the room and back again in barely more than a blink. As she sat down, she pulled something from her pocket—a pocket? on drawers? Miss Lister _was_ curious—but it fit so neatly into her palm Sophie couldn't see what it was. “Well, come over here, I can hardly see you all the way over—no, I told you, stay on the floor.”

Sophie scooted forward across the floor, feeling a bit ungainly. The smile was back in Anne's voice, though, and she chanced a look up to see a small, pleased smile rounding out Miss Lister's pointed face. She felt the answering smile teasing her own mouth as she dared to reply, “Yes, miss.” Something heavy gathered in her belly and her eyes felt wide and dark— _hungry_ —as they met Anne's own.

“Sir,” Anne said in a voice so cool it was nearly a whisper.

She stopped moving, settling onto her knees and ankles before Anne's barely-parted thighs without ever breaking eye contact. “Yes, Miss Sir,” she repeated dutifully, wresting the laugh from her voice.

“Hmm. Yes.” Anne's eyes flicked from her eyes down to her mouth, as if it had surprised her, and back up again before retreating to the desk, and the paper she'd left on it. She flipped open what she'd had in her hand—a knife—and began to cut the paper in two even halves.** “You've rather interrupted my letter writing time, you know.” She pulled a pen and inkwell from the desk, set them out in a neat line. “Here, hold this. No, keep your hands down.”

Sophie felt the blunt back of the knife prod against her lips and dropped her jaw open in surprise, closing it again when the flat of the blade tapped gently against her teeth. The metal chilled her lips but was warming already, her short breaths huffing out between her gingerly shut teeth to mist its surface. She kept her eyes on Anne, but she didn't glance her way even once; her face was set, intent, focused on the paper before her and the scratch of her pen racing across the paper.

Finally, Anne sanded the paper and set it aside to dry, tucking the other half of the sheet back in the writing-desk before she turned her attention back to Sophie.

She grasped the handle of the knife and gave the barest tug. As her heart pounded in her throat, Sophie reluctantly opened her clenched jaw to let it go, leaning forward to chase it as Anne pulled the blade away.

“Not done with that yet, are we?” She flicked the knife closed against her thigh and then open again, closed and open, just there, just inches from her face.

Sophie didn't know how to respond—knew she wasn't done but didn't know what with, just stared up at Miss Lister with her mouth open and her face hot, her eyes wet and her blood racing, and hoped Anne would know what she needed.

“Open up. Show me your tongue.” Dizzy, Sophie swallowed the saliva pooled under her tongue and complied, pulse beating against her cheeks and between her legs. She stared at Anne's face—her eyes, her mouth, her eyes burning where they gazed at her own mouth—not her hands, but she could feel the knife come closer, could feel a ghost of air moving when it dipped inside her mouth.

They hung there, frozen in time, neither chancing to move and break it, and then Sophie opened her mouth, wider, pushed her tongue out, further, and Miss Lister gave a little pleased chuckle and Sophie felt the point of the knife alight on her tongue, drag slowly down the center of it.

The air rushed out of her like water out of a broken jug and she shivered all down her back. She held as still as she could manage until she felt the knife reach the very tip of her tongue and lift off again, and then—glancing down just quickly to be sure of where it was, looking up to Anne's face, feeling daring—she stretched out her tongue and carefully, slowly, licked up the flat of the blade, from the point all the way to where the metal met the smooth wood of the handle.

Color appeared in Anne's face then, bright spots high on her cheeks as her breathing went ragged and she slumped ever-so-slightly in the wooden chair. Sophie kept watching her, the motion of her chest under her shift, the bunch of fabric where it tucked into her drawers, every part of her frozen and tight but for her ribs, heaving with breath, and her mouth, where her tongue kept tracing her bottom lip, over and over.

Sophie pulled back just enough to shift her seat slightly, just to get comfortable, and realized abruptly how wet she'd become when she felt the draught cooling against her ankles. She settled again, wincing a bit at the sticky feeling, and turned her attention back to the knife.

She licked the meager spine of it, tip to guard and back again, eyes falling closed as her focus narrowed to the sensation of it, hard metal against her soft mouth. Her tongue curled away from the slick blade and she took a deep breath in through her open mouth, feeling it bump raggedly around inside her.

Her eyes flew open at the whisper of fabric and she looked up to see Anne's thighs open, creating an inviting space between them. The hand holding the knife settled high up on one broad thigh, index finger and thumb nearly white where they pressed against the handle. She shuffled a bit closer, relishing the unforgiving feel of the floorboards beneath her bare knees, and moved to rest her forehead against Anne's clothed knee. 

“No—like before.” Her thighs flexed, knees widening for a moment before Sophie shifted back to the center and leaned forward to lick the knife again, soft short licks perpendicular to the cutting edge, feeling its sharpness for each brief pressing moment before her tongue came free again, and Anne's knees closed again, a little shadowed cove for Sophie to shelter in. 

“Yes, miss.” One eyebrow flicked up, waiting. “Sir.”

She didn't talk after that for long minutes, licking the knife back and forth, up and down, as Anne's brown eyes darkened and bored into her own. The hot squirm of feeling was back, tightening between her thighs, but she did her best to ignore it. Focused on how close Anne's fingers were to her own mouth, the way she looked increasingly undone—breath coming heavy and rough, hair dampened at the temples. Let her eyes slide closed and breathed in deep to savor the close, warm feeling of kneeling like this for Miss Lister, the air humid between them, thick with the smell of salt.

Anne panted through an open mouth, each breath louder and louder until they cut off suddenly in the barest murmur of a groan, teeth grinding as her jaw snapped shut, eyes clenched so tight it looked almost painful. 

Sophie fell back, something like shock but like pride, too, racing through her. She caught herself with one hand behind her but not soon enough to stop her from sitting down, hard, on her crossed ankles. The bump jarred her, and she felt something—that melting vulnerability, that twisting heat—unclasp within her, and she kept rocking, grinding her dripping center instinctively against the knot of her ankle bone, barely noticing the hand clamped over her face to trap her breathless moans.

She collapsed then, falling sideways a moment before something caught her by the hair, brought her face to rest against a warm, soft fabric, darkness cradling her damp eyes as fingers carded through her hair.

**Author's Note:**

> ~footnotes~~
> 
> *this is not period-typical corset lacing i'm just fucking thirsty as god damn shit  
> ** again, this not historically accurate paper cutting (though folding knives did exist). for explanation please refer to footnote #1. i just thought a real knife would be sexier than an actual paper knife and trying to explain why anne would have a wooden knife sharpened to the same point as any normal knife was frankly too much work
> 
> ~conclude footnotes~~~
> 
> what i learned from writing this is that although i am not person who owns, wears, or ever desires pajamas at any time i have a massive nightwear fetish
> 
> if you too are dying of skin hunger and want to start a leper colony somewhere come yell at me on tumbls and we can go halvsies on an island or something asstrongasyouthink.tumblr.com


End file.
